So, here I am again. Stuck in this endless rut of hopelessness and self-loathing. When will I deem myself good enough? When will I allow myself the liberty of indulgence in one area of my life. When will I be worthy? Worthy of love. Worthy of him.
I cannot remember what meaning my life consisted of before this startling whirl of blinding wonder abducted the mundane reality that I had become so attuned to. Get up and get ready for work. Go to work. Get home and spend the night surrounded with empty home comforts that have long since been anything but comforting.
The only meaning that mattered now was wasting away the hours till a small comment, a critiquing glance, that one small touch.
The once detached life was now filled with incessant cycles of hope, anxiety, rejection and grieving seemed to dictate my existence.
Pride filled my working hours, longing to impress and surpass expectation. Defeat then consumed every waking hour spent away from work. Fantasy was the one sweet release that emancipated a myriad of hidden desires.